


The Montreuil Ring

by Sophie



Category: Arsène Lupin - Maurice Leblanc, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, French, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie/pseuds/Sophie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes might be a greater opponent than what Arsène had anticipated. Arsène Lupin/Sherlock Holmes crossover in the universe of the BBC Sherlock TV show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Montreuil Ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liz_mo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liz_mo/gifts).



> I decided to be immensely silly and write their conversations in French when they're speaking in French. The French dialogue has hovertext translations.
> 
> This is a Yuletide treat.
> 
> Thanks to [Tali](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe) for the beta.

« _La hache tournoie dans l'air qui frémit, mais l'aile s'ouvre et on va jusqu'à Dieu._ »

It had been the beginning of a story. Of course, it was not, in any way, the start of _the_ story. Not at all. The story of Arsène Lupin had started years ago with a little boy named Raoul —not that that is relevant to the current events.

It wouldn't have been enough by itself, of course, but Georges Devanne had been a very useful man. He had given Horace Velmont the two clues that were missing from two books that had been stolen.

« _Thibermesnil : 2-6-12._ » Ah -- here's the other one. It wouldn't have made sense to most people, but our man is not most people.

So, with that, Horace Velmont —also known as Arsène Lupin to strictly no one other than himself— had everything he needed to go to Dieppe and find what he had been looking for for a few months. A few months wasn't much to him at all; he had a lot of money accumulated from past exploits, was enjoying living off the celebrity that accompanied his paintings (he did enjoy being a renowned artist, and who would have known that the paintings were not really his?), and he never turned down a challenge. This was a challenge, nothing more.

He could have used his friendship with Devanne for information just as easily as he could have gone through his country house any day when he knew the man was working in Paris. He could have stolen all the furniture. There was always something very grandiose about emptying a house of its furniture; it was never worth _that_ much, but it left so little behind. Arsène was all about shock.

Arsène also knew where the man kept all the highest security documents, not because Devanne had told him —he was naïve, but a politician is never _that_ naïve—, but he always had other ways to know.

These possibilities were all boring and easy. He wanted to crack an old-school, spectacular, dramatic mystery that had been forgotten a century ago and waved away as a rumour, and he had known he would give this particular issue about ten to thirteen weeks. He would mobilise his gang to rob Devanne's country house only after he'd discovered everything he wanted to know on the Tour Guillaume.

A few months was a long time, and his gang had been restless. This was only worsened by the fact that Arsène had trouble trusting computers and phones. He wanted everything to be completely secure and in his control. It was next to impossible, of course, and he didn't communicate with his men nearly often enough and, even then, in very specific codes that he had perfected over the years or on channels that he had hacked and secured himself. When you wanted to perform in the field Arsène was in, you needed to adapt to the world evolving around you, and that required incredible hacking skills. Arsène wasn't satisfied with his, not entirely. He would never be.

Ten to thirteen weeks doing nothing was impossible for someone like Arsène Lupin, and he didn't want to disappoint his public either. All France waited for his name to appear in _l'Écho de France_ or for him to update his blog. The blog he was keeping was his way of taunting the police (who was he kidding? He was taunting Ganimard and no one else) and was certainly the most secure, untraceable piece of information found on the Internet, and it was very hard to make something untraceable on the internet. Arsène would know.

The point was: he couldn't leave his millions of fans hanging. That would have been bad manners.

That was how he ended up being seen and spoken about by making appearances in Le Havre and Yvetôt, and that was why Georges Devanne contacted Sherlock Holmes and told everyone in his household about how excited he was when Holmes answered that he would be coming by.

This was a great victory in itself. Arsène's name meant enough that his involvement in a case had caught Sherlock Holmes' attention. Enough that the man would cross la Manche (the so-called English Channel) and spend a few days on French soil. Amazing.

Sherlock Holmes was on his way, Arsène Lupin had the two keys to the old mystery of the Tour Guillaume, and everything was set for something to happen that night.

And then plans changed. The robbery occurred —went perfectly well in fact (everything always went perfectly well)— and he was ready to mock Devanne by returning the next morning to open the passageways under the castle a few kilometers up north as if he hadn't just spent the night emptying his country house and Miss Nelly appeared.

He did solve everything there was to solve the next day. He also returned all the furniture. No one would ever say that Arsène Lupin was not the perfect romantic gentleman. Except that he kept the documents, of course, but Devanne wasn't supposed to have those in his country house and so he wouldn't tell anyone they were missing; Miss Nelly would never know. Arsène would find the best use for them later.

He left the place on foot. Gilbert was going to pick him up a few minutes away from the castle's grounds. He was feeling rather miserable, too. He wasn't any richer than yesterday and Miss Nelly hadn't talked to him—

Ah, why bother thinking about this? What was done, was done. He was a man who kept his promises. The next adventure would have a better ending.

He would still be able to make a great story out of this for his public —something vague and absolutely outrageous about how he had stolen everything to prove he could, but had been unimpressed by the worth of the goods. Maybe, he would add a dash of truth by mentioning a woman was involved. Or maybe he'd tell Maurice all about it and Maurice would be the one concocting a fantastic story out of it. His friend had always been a decent enough writer, and he had far more time than Arsène did for it all.

He was smiling, already quite over it all, when he saw two men walking towards the castle. He would soon cross their path, and this little event wouldn't have much of an influence in Arsène's life if he hadn't recognize Sherlock Holmes from afar.

He was taller than he had thought he would be and moved quickly and efficiently, nearly sliding on the ground, each of his movements fluid.

He was a dangerous man.

Arsène wasn't quite sure how he felt about meeting with him. It was possibly a good thing that he was leaving and that they wouldn't be formally introduced to each other.

That wasn't quite what happened. They moved closer and closer to each other until Holmes stopped in front of Arsène, nearly forcing Arsène to stop too. Sherlock was not an overly polite man, but his French was impeccable when he inquired about the way to the castle.

Arsène told him and, feeling daring, added, "On vous attend avec impatience."

"Ah?"

"Oui, mon ami Devanne nous annonçait votre visite dès hier soir."

Sherlock Holmes looked particularly unimpressed, "Tant pis pour M. Devanne s'il a trop parlé."

"Peut-être." Arsène smiled. "Et je suis heureux d'être le premier à vous saluer. Vous n'avez pas d'admirateur plus fervent que moi." The irony in his voice was not hidden as well as it should have been, and a pregnant pause settled between them. Holmes' friend (whom Arsène knew was named John Watson) seemed to know he was missing something, but didn't cut through the silence. Maybe, he didn't speak French. A fact that simple would explain his behaviour, after all.

Holmes' stare was particularly intense. It made Arsène feel as though he would be able to recognise him no matter what he was wearing, no matter how well-disguised he was. It was true, of course. There lay the danger of playing with someone like Sherlock Holmes, after all.

Arsène smiled once more. "Désolé. C'était un peu trop?"

"Non. Pas du tout." Another silence. "Nom?"

Arsène wasn't going to back down now, not after he had started the match. "Horace Velmont. Peut-être avez-vous entendu parler de moi. J'ai présentement une paint--"

"Yes, yes." Holmes didn't offer his thanks for the information before commencing his walk to the castle once more.

Gilbert picked Arsène up where they had agreed upon and they switched places so that Arsène could drive. On his way to Paris, he received a text on the cell phone currently owned by Horace Velmont.

  
_Gardez ce téléphone._   


So Sherlock Holmes knew, and Arsène could tell he had also solved the riddle of the Tour Guillaume. They went with one another, really: solving it would tell him that someone else had, he would ask who else had been here, and he would know Horace Velmont was the only one who could have done it. After meeting him, Holmes would have developed doubts already, and this would only confirm them. So he'd ask for Horace Velmont's phone number, and Devanne would give it to him, leading to the text Arsène had just received.

He kept the phone, even though he wouldn't need to be Horace Velmont for a while.

*

Weeks later, Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his and John Watson's apartment, doing his best not to think about Moriarty's silence. His cell phone rang every hour or so, texts from John telling him of cases that might interest him. He was bored, and John knew that it was never good when he was bored, so he was trying to keep him busy.

His phone rang again. A ring had been stolen in France. John clearly still had a lot of problems discerning the sort of case that would interest Sherlock. He would learn. Or maybe he had shown him that one because of the monetary compensation that was advertised, his own way of telling Sherlock that they did need to make money to pay a rent.

As if they would ever be thrown out. John worried too much.

His phone rang again a minute later, and he was going to ignore it (two texts in a minute, really?) when he caught a glimpse at the name on the caller ID.

He stood up quickly, phone in hand, and read it twice.

  
_Ne vous inquiétez pas au sujet de la bague de Montreuil, je m'en occupe._   


He was on his way to buying train tickets with John's credit card (without exactly contacting him to ask him if it was okay to use it or if John's schedule allowed him to spend a few weeks in France) when he received another text.

  
_La bague a déjà traversé la Manche. Ne perdez pas d'argent sur des billets de train, sauf si vous offrez de payer le mien._   


*

As it was, Arsène didn't need anyone to pay for his train ticket. It hadn't taken many phone calls and emails for him to be invited to the English embassy as Sernine who was, after all, a Russian envoy. Sernine was just leaving Paris; surely, passing through London wouldn't be such a stretch. He took the plane, and the English government paid for it.

In a way, that meant Holmes was paying for his travel; it was the money of the good taxpayers. Oh, he always felt a bit awkward when the French government paid for something of his. France had a great socialist system that required people to not exploit it. Not that this stopped Arsène from doing just that (let's not be daft), but it made him feel vaguely guilty.

I remember Arsène telling me how one of the reasons he made so much fuss with each theft was that he returned to the people what he took from them by giving them a great source of entertainment. I knew he also simply liked the attention and he didn't try to hide it.

He _didn't_ feel guilty about taking money away from the Brits. He even felt good about it. He said it was a sign of patriotism to be proud when you trumped England. It was similar to how it always felt better when the French football team beat England than when they beat any other team or how Zidane always used to be compared to Beckham first and foremost, not because Beckham was the (second) best, no, but because Beckham played for England.

I was in London during the case of the Montreuil ring. I had been there for work for two months and would stay there another three. We hadn't talked since he'd told me about the case of the Tour Guillaume, and I was very excited for him to tell me what exactly was going on. He always told the best stories.

I didn't recognise him when he met me at a small restaurant next to my office at noon the day after he landed in London. This was not a surprise; I never did recognise him, and I was used to it. He was never offended, and if he was unimpressed by my deductive abilities, he never said a word.

Paul Sernine was pristine and wore beautiful, expensive suits. Arsène did his very best to create personas that would wear the most expensive, proper, posh clothing he could think of. His face and hair would change all the time, and his body would seem to change because of his talents as an actor, but the suits were the biggest constant through all of his personas. Being someone rich had a lot of other advantages, which he also used as much as possible.

Arsène Lupin's English was perfect, just like his command of half a dozen other languages, and this also meant he could imitate an accent in any of those languages without any problem. It was part of what he had worked on to make every single one of his disguises perfect. As he was Russian at the moment, it was normal for him to speak English with a slight Russian accent, using syntax that, without being wrong, was awkward to native speakers. It was all calculated and calibrated to give a feel of his character.

He didn't order anything. Or rather he ordered food with no specifics other than asking for something that wouldn't contain any meat. Paul Sernine ate meat and would always go through the menu to ask for the most expensive meal he could find. I was dining with Arsène Lupin.

We were well into our meal when Arsène interrupted a story and looked suddenly worried. That was not an expression I was used to seeing on his face.

"Quelque chose ne va pas?"

"Oui. Ou plutôt, non. Tu vois ce grand homme qui vient d'entrer?"

"Oui?"

"C'est Sherlock Holmes."

"Non!" I had to do my best not to turn around and stare. That wouldn't have been wise. Everyone knew about Sherlock Holmes nowadays, ever since his exploits around a case that was now infamously known as 'The Great Game' had made its way all through Western Europe. "Est-ce que ça veut dire qu'on s'en va?"

Arsène looked disappointed and slightly angry at the idea, but huffed and nodded. We were halfway to the door when he muttered something about how this was all stupid, grinned, and walked quickly right up to the English detective, sitting in one of the vacant chairs at his table.

"Holmes! Quelle coincidence. Si j'avais su que je vous verrai ici, j'aurais préparé quelque chose. Ce sera pour une autre fois, j'imagine." He signaled me over. "Voici mon ami, Maurice. Il travaille juste à côté."

I had no idea what was going on, but ignoring Arsène and leaving was clearly not an option. I sat down with them and offered my hand for Holmes to shake. He didn't offer me his and looked at me as if I were a bother. It was obvious he thought very little of me.

Holmes' friend —I couldn't remember his name— looked at him and at us and at him again. "I don't think Sherlock is going to introduce us," he finally said.

Arsène switched to English without having to think about it. "Ah, Sherlock, Sherlock. You should work on your manners. Your poor friend!" He grinned at Holmes's friend with his most charming smile. "We've met before briefly in Dieppe. You asked me for directions." He stretched his hand toward the other man. "Arsène Lupin," he said and added as if nothing at all had just happened, "English is such a dire language, isn't it? I'm already missing the... Ah, how do you call it? A T-V distinction? It's so barbaric not to be able to clarify social politeness when speaking to someone."

My English was very good, but Arsène's language abilities always floored me anyway.

They shook hands. "I'm John Watson." He looked bewildered.

"Yes, I know."

"I— Yes. Uh."

"Don't stutter, John. It makes you look like an idiot. What will they think of Englishmen?" Sherlock's voice was curt and precise without being loud or aggressive. Watson sighed. I silently sympathised with him. This situation was already quite out of hand for both of us.

"My opinion of Englishmen is already very settled. Don't bother trying to change it. Just like your opinion on my country must be."

Holmes didn't bother answering to either deny or confirm.

"Uhm. Okay. Not that I really want to be the one stating the obvious, here, but should we be arresting you?"

Arsène looked utterly shocked. It made me smile. "Arrest us? Or— Oh, wait, was that a singular you? Because if it was, then maybe, yes! But not the both of us. Maurice here hasn't done anything wrong in his life. And do you see what I meant? Horrible language. Your vocabulary is just so lacking. And it sounds so aggressive. Nothing compared to German, though, I'll give you that."

Watson didn't seem to think this was a worthy answer and stared at Holmes. "Oh, don't be foolish, John. I don't work for the police."

"He's sought for murder!" Watson hissed.

"I am _not_. I was cleared. I do not kill. Who do you take me for?"

The waitress passed by, asked them if they wanted anything, and was unsure about what to make of us both changing tables so suddenly. Holmes asked for nothing but water, and Arsène did the same. He usually would have been drinking when impersonating a character as bon vivant as this one. However, drinking lowered his awareness, and he needed to be on his guard, even if he was doing his best at showing off that he wasn't worried about anything.

I would have had a glass of wine myself, but I was in England and on my lunch break. Their views about drinking in the middle of a work day were not the same as those in France.

"He would only flee if I moved to call the police," continued Holmes nonchalantly. "He is, after all, between us and the door."

"Oh! I'm sorry. Does that bother you? We can trade places." I felt like telling my friend to stop talking, but he was not the type of man who would be shut up. "Here— Do you want to take my phone? I can compose the two first nines for you. One more nine and the chickens are on their way before I can make a move for the exit. I know, I know, you call them _pigs_ , but I like chickens better. I'm very attached to our expressions, you see. I trust you understand the sentiment."

Holmes didn't move all through Arsène's rambling. He often talked a lot, maybe too much. I didn't mind, of course. I thought it was fascinating.

The silence settled, and the waitress brought Watson his food and two glasses of water. Arsène winked at her and left her one of architect Maxime Bermond's cards. She giggled before leaving their table.

"I don't like your country much, but I do love your women."

He took a sip of his glass. Holmes did the same.

"You're exceedingly nervous," Holmes finally said. His tone was heavy and serious and cooled down the atmosphere drastically. "You're not sitting facing me entirely, so you do want to leave yourself the option of running away at arm's reach.

"You're wearing a suit that clashes with the environment, so you don't want to pass unnoticed, which means you're currently not yourself. You're not dressed as Horace Velmont would be, and the level of the English you used with the waitress was too good for Monsieur Velmont, too. You didn't introduce yourself as whichever alter-ego you might be using, though, which says you do not want me to know who it is. But I am not blind: I can see your cufflinks, Lupin. How long do you think it will take me to look up what supposedly Russian envoy is currently staying in London? You're right to be nervous. You should also stop underestimating me if you want this to be an interesting game between us. I don't want to be bored.

"Now. Are you going to tell me in what circumstances the ring was stolen from you, so we start on equal grounds, or is this show over for today?"

I looked at my friend, surprised. The ring had been stolen from him? And if it were true, how did Sherlock Holmes know it?

"I think I'll follow your own advice and keep my lead. Telling you too much would only show how I underestimate you, after all." Arsène grinned and stood up. "Well! The show is quite over for today. Next time we meet will be to battle. It was nice talking to you. And this is a plural you, just to be clear, since your language doesn't do well in clarity."

I also stood up, relieved that we were leaving. Watson thanked Arsène and returned the compliment, although it was only out of politeness and not because he meant it.

"Your boyfriend has better manners than you do, Holmes. You should learn from him."

"I'm not—"

"Ah, then one of you needs to act on those feelings soon; let's not waste time. Come on! Love is usually so hard to find, you see." He waved. " _À la revoyure!_ "

I followed after him.


End file.
